Omon Ra by Victor Pelevin Page B

put my shoulder against them and shoved with all my strength.
    The daylight was dazzling; some of us put a hand over our eyes, others turned away, and only Colonel Urchagin sat there calmly, with the usual half-smile on his face. When we got used to the light, it turned out we were facing the grey headstones in front of the Kremlin wall, and I guessed we must have come out of the back entrance of the Lenin Mausoleum. It was so long since I’d seen the sky over my head that I felt dizzy.
    “Every single one of our Soviet cosmonauts,” the Flight Leader said softly, “has come here before theirflight, to these stones that are sacred to every Soviet citizen, in order to take a little part of this place into space with them. Our country’s labours have been hard and long, it all began with nothing but gun carts and machine guns, and now you young lads work with highly complex automatic systems”—he paused and ran a cold, unblinking gaze round all our eyes—“which have been entrusted to you by the Motherland, and which Bamlag Ivanovich and I have explained to you in our lectures. I am sure that as you tread the surface of the Motherland for the final time you will each take with you a little part of Red Square, though just what that particle will be for each of you, I cannot say …”
    We stood in silence on the surface of our native planet. It was daytime. The sky was slightly overcast, and the sweeping branches of the blue firs swayed gently in the wind. There was a scent of flowers. The bells began chiming five o’clock; the Flight Leader glanced at his watch, adjusted the hands, and said that we still had a few minutes.
    We went out onto the steps in front of the main door of the mausoleum. There was no one at all on Red Square, unless you counted the two sentries who had just come on duty and gave no sign at all that they saw us, and three sentries’ backs receding in the direction of the Spasskaya Tower. I glanced around, drinking in everything I saw and felt: the grey walls of GUM, the hollow fruit and vegetable shapes of St. Basil’s Cathedral, the Lenin Mausoleum, the green dome topped by a red flag that I knew was behind the wall, the pediment of the Historical Museum, and the low grey sky, which looked as though it had turned its back on the earth andwas probably still unaware that soon it would be ripped open by the iron phallus of a Soviet rocket.
    “It’s time,” said the Flight Leader.
    The guys walked slowly back behind the mausoleum. A minute or so later only Colonel Urchagin and I were left under the word LENIN . The Flight Leader looked at his watch and coughed, but Urchagin said: “One moment, Comrade Lieutenant-General. I want to say a few words to Omon.”
    The Flight Leader nodded and withdrew around the polished marble corner.
    “Come here, my boy,” said the colonel. I went over to him. The first large, scattered raindrops were falling on the cobblestones of Red Square. Urchagin groped in the air, and I held out my hand to him. He caught it, squeezed it slightly, and tugged it towards him. I bent over, and he began to whisper in my ear. As I listened to him, I watched the steps in front of his wheelchair gradually turning darker in the rain.
    Comrade Urchagin spoke to me for about two minutes, pausing at length between his words. When he stopped talking, he squeezed my hand again and let go of it.
    “Now go and join the others,” he said.
    I took a step in the direction of the mausoleum, then turned back and asked: “What about you?”
    The raindrops were falling more and more thickly.
    “No matter,” he said, extracting an umbrella from a holster-like case on the side of the wheelchair. “I’ll ride around here for a while.”
    And that was what I carried away with me from Red Square that early evening: the darkened cobblestonesand a thin figure in an old military jacket, sitting in an invalid chair and struggling to open a black umbrella.
    Dinner was pretty bad that evening: